Breakup Breakdown
by Twyla Mercedes
Summary: Or What Happened to His Hair and Is That a Lizard Tattoo? Gold has come back to Storybrooke following Belle's awakening. A . . . uh . . . slight error in judgement descends into a night of heavy drinking and Gold wakes up to some unsettling changes. From a prompt on Rumbelle for the Win during the discussion of 6 X 01. Rating is for language.


**The Victorian**

He took another drink.

He was alternately furiously angry and desperately sadden.

Everything, all of his efforts – his stupid, conceited, smug efforts – all had turned to shit.

And now, somehow, he'd lost his chance to be a good father, even before his child was born.

And Belle had, yet again, walked out of his life, still incensed that he was not the man she wanted him to be.

He took another drink.

It wasn't good, he knew, to sit alone in a darkened room, swilling whiskey. Bad things could happen to a person.

He snorted.

And he took another drink.

Somehow Belle had changed from loving him, even loving the dark side, _he believed she had, at one time, loved the dark side too,_ to not even wanting to be around him.

True Love – it was supposed to last forever, but with enough neglect, enough betrayal, he knew it could die.

He took another drink, polishing off his good Johnny Walker. He foraged in his liquor cabinet and found a half-empty Jim Beam. He opened it and poured it into his glass.

It was all his fault. It would have been better if Belle had never found out about his sacrifice when he had sent her out of town so she could see the world - so she wouldn't be sucked into the Underworld. If she had never returned, they wouldn't have ended up in bed together in one of the chintz nightmare bedrooms at Granny's Inn and there wouldn't be a child.

He took another drink.

A child. His child.

Why? Why had his child already rejected him? Except for that one little mistake when he'd let Bae jump into the vortex and, unwilling to give up his power, he'd been too cowardly to follow. Except for that little mistake, he'd been a good father.

He'd thought he'd been a good father.

He remembered skimping on his own meals so his son would have more to eat. He remembered working long hours into the night spinning, his muscles aching and his eyes burning, all to get a little extra money to buy them basic necessities. He remembered telling his son stories and tucking him in at night, spending what nowadays would be called 'quality time' with him at every opportunity.

He'd been a good father.

He took another drink. The room was eerily silent. It was still light outside, disgustedly bright and sunshiny, late afternoon, he thought. It should be raining, maybe even sleeting with gray, overcast skies, not bright and sunshiny.

He probably hadn't been the best boyfriend and not the greatest husband. But, because she had wanted to, he'd allowed her to walk away from him - many times. And he'd always made sure that she had a place to live and a way to make a living, a way to support herself with dignity. Lord knows, he'd never raised a hand to Belle, although most men from his time, certainly that pompous ex-fiance, wouldn't have hesitated to slap her around for trivial reasons. Gaston certainly wouldn't have tolerated any refusals of what he considered to be her 'wifely duties.

He thought that this should have gained him some husband points.

He took another drink.

He would have said that he had always tried to treat Belle with respect.

But there had been that one time in the hospital when, desperate to help her regain her identity, he'd pressed a kiss on her. It hadn't worked and the action had terrified her in her cursed state. But otherwise . . .

He took another drink.

Well, he had lied to her a couple of times.

.

Maybe more than a couple of times.

He took another drink.

But damn it all, he'd finally come to terms with his Darkness and he'd recognized that he couldn't, wouldn't give it up. Belle would have to accept that part of him or they could never have anything.

He'd finished up the Jim Beam. He wobbled up and scrounged in the back of his liquor cabinet.

Ah, some Rebel Yell. That should do the trick.

He took another drink.

Damn, this stuff tasted like gasoline

He shrugged and took another drink.

He looked at the door. He needed to get something else to drink. He tucked the Rebel Yell into the inside pocket of his Armani. He stepped outside.

He took another drink.

That was the last half-assed aware thought he'd had.

 **Jail**

He didn't recognize the ceiling.

Wait a minute. Yes, he did.

The god damn fucking jail.

 _Why was he in jail?_

He turned his head. _Oh, Mother of God._

He was not doing well. His mouth was as dry as Granny's meatloaf. His head was pounding, screaming like a banshee with nipple clamps. His eyes hurt. He reached up to brush his hair aside and . . . _what the hell?_

 _What had happened to his hair?_

 _And his clothes? What the hell had happened to his clothes?_

He was dressed in his suit pants but on top, he was wearing an old plaid flannel shirt. It looked like something David might wear.

 _Where was his Armani jacket, his silk shirt, his tie?_

"Well, sleeping beauty is finally awake."

 _Oh shut the fuck up, Miss I'm So Doing the Pirate Right Now Savior. She was altogether too gleeful. And altogether too loud._

"You were really out of it when he brought you in," she told him. _Yeah, she was definitely gleeful._

He gingerly sat up, gritting his teeth against the waves of searing, pounding pain.

"What the hell happened?" he managed to get out.

"Apparently you got drunk, really, really, really drunk," Emma told him, coming to sit by the cell. "Really drunk."

"I don't get drunk. I'm the Dark One," he growled out and winced.

"Uh huh, and Dark Ones don't get hangovers either," she said softly. "As I recall, the price of using magic to get rid of a hangover is . . . a hangover."

"Quite right," he had to agree. "What happened to my hair?" His hand brushed over his head. It was an odd feeling.

"You don't remember? Leroy told me when you showed up at the Rabbit Hole, your floof had already been trimmed off."

"Leroy?" He wasn't sure he wanted to hear this. _Rabbit Hole? Floof?_

"Your new best drinking buddy." Gleeful again. "I got a text from Perla's. She said you stumbled in her salon, scattering her clients and demanding a haircut." Emma paused, "I think you scared her shitless. She knew you were drunk and was afraid you'd go ballistic when you sobered up and saw what she had done – at your request. I think she was letting me know in case she suddenly disappeared." Emma leaned back, "I like it. It makes you look like a drug dealer, an all-around son-of-a-bitch, but I like it."

"Thanks," he muttered. "Am I a prisoner?"

"Nah. You told Leroy that you didn't want to go home to a cold, lonely house, so he brought you here after closing time so you could sleep it off."

"Oh," he said. _More humiliation heaped on by having to be hauled into the hoosegow by a dwarf._

He rubbed his head and stood, waiting a moment for the blackness closing in his visual field to roll back. He began to make his way out of the cell.

Emma took pity on him. "That shirt belongs to Dad," she told him. "Leroy told me that you were involved in a game of strip pool at the Rabbit Hole."

"I don't play pool," he said.

"No kidding," she agreed with a dry chuckle. "The game started after you stood on the bar and showed everybody your dance moves."

"Oh?" _Oh dear lord, how drunk had he been?_

"Well, the good news is, you got universally positive reviews. Apparently, the denizens of the Rabbit Hole were impressed with your Lindy Hop or whatever the hell you were doing. Then you started to play pool for your clothes. I think Dopey won your Armani jacket but then Leroy won it off of him. If you like, I can find out who won your shirt and your tie."

He grimaced and shook his head. "Please don't," he pleaded. _Like he'd want to wear any of those things again now that the likes of Leroy had worn them. Even triple-acid dry-cleaning wouldn't do the trick._ "I'll return the shirt to the jail as soon as I'm able," he promised as he headed out the door of the jail.

"Tomorrow would be fine. Now, have you always had that tattoo or is that new?" Emma called after him.

He stopped.

"What?! "

"The lizard on your right shoulder," she explained. "I saw it when Leroy brought you in - shirtless."

"I have a tattoo!" _Tattoos were for sailors . . . and pirates! Not for businessmen, landlords . . . or Dark Ones! How the hell did he get a tattoo?_

 _And why?_

 _And why a lizard?_

 _He knew they were symbols for regeneration and survival._

 _And they were reptiles – a certain reminder of his old imp-self, with his green skin and scales._

 _There was the vague memory of going into Moana's and asking her for the lizard (surprised he hadn't asked for a crocodile . . . or Belle's name written across his chest)._

Emma softened her look. "Gold. I saw Belle and I know she's moved back in over the library. Obviously, you got her awake from the sleeping curse but she didn't move back in the Victorian to be with you. So you two are kinda on a break . . . or broken up . . . or something. You know," she hesitated, "a lot of people change something about themselves after a breakup . . . get a haircut, a tattoo . . . ."

He interrupted, "I'm not a teenage girl, Miss Swan. Next, you'll be suggesting I get a carton of Rocky Road ice cream and a spoon." _Actually, that sounded pretty good._

"Sorry, it's none of my business."

"No, it isn't." He said shortly.

"If you need a friend to talk things over with . . ." she began.

"I'll call Leroy," he told her acerbically.

"Maybe you should call Archie," Emma told him. "You and Belle might try seeing him together."

"Miss Swan," he began, holding up his finger ready to admonish her, but stopped. His head was just hurting too bad for snark. He dropped his arm and turned to make his way out the door into the searing morning sun.

 **Belle**

And Belle.

She had been waiting for him, standing in the morning sun, so bright and sunshiny herself.

"Emma texted me you might need a ride," she told him, her bright blue eyes looking him over, taking in his dishabille. She made no mention of the plaid flannel shirt.

"I'm going to my shop to change. I can walk."

Belle fell in beside him.

"Are you all right?" she held the question until they got inside his blessedly dark shop.

"Of course. I'm perfectly fine. I just apparently got roaring drunk and made a complete arse of myself."

"Well, I heard the dance moves were amazing but you do need help with your pool game," she said quietly.

He had managed to find a fresh shirt, tie and slipped on a new suit jacket.

"I like your new hair," Belle told him. "I could get used to this," and she reached up to touch his nape. He nearly flinched but forced himself to stay still.

 _She was touching him._

"Why don't I take you to breakfast at Granny's? I believe she has a special hangover special – a large glass of water, coffee, two eggs and toast with honey butter."

"I . . . I . . ." _Why was he hesitating?_ "Sure, yes, of course."

Belle tucked her arm in his and gently guided him out the door of the shop and down the street to Granny's.

"Belle, I don't want to muck anything up but . . ."

"Why am I being so nice?"

"That's one question I might ask," he agreed.

"I'm still mad with you, but . . . but . . . I understand what you're going through."

 _A hundred responses came to mind. What? The love of your life is forcing you to choose between your elemental self and your greatest love? Your not-yet-ex-wife is carrying your child who has a weird oedipal thing toward his mother? You just paraded your drunken sot of yourself in front of the entire town?_

For once in his life, he held his tongue. "Thank you."

They entered Granny's.

 _Oh lordy. Too bright, too loud, too, too . . ."_

He allowed Belle to propel him into a booth. Rudy came up with a knowing smile to take their orders.

"Hangover special?" she asked. Belle nodded on his behalf.

She ordered for herself, "I'm a bit peckish this morning. Bring me two eggs scrambled, your special turkey bacon, hash browns, a side of salsa, whole wheat toast, decaf coffee, a glass of milk, stewed apples and a couple of pancakes. Oh, and can I have some onion rings on the side?"

Gold raised his eyebrow _instantly regretting the action._

"I'm eating for two," Belle told him with a smile. "And I'll probably throw it all up before ten anyway."

He looked up at her _now concerned_.

"Morning sickness. It's pretty grim," she shared.

 _Should he offer to help? Would she be angry that he was solving a problem with magic?_

"Let me know if there's anything I can do," he told her. _That should cover everything from driving her to the doctor to casting a full-bore linear spell that took away every single bit of pregnancy unpleasantness._

She shook her head. "Thank you, but I'm hoping it will pass in a couple of weeks."

Gold picked over his meal. The flickering of the fluorescent lights bothered him. The slogging footsteps of the other patrons gripped his ass. The clinking of the glasses crawled up his spine. He got the water down, a spoonful of egg and half a piece of toast. He was working on the coffee.

"I got a tattoo," he told her after a long silence.

"Yeah?"

"A lizard," he explained.

"Interesting."

"It's on my shoulder."

"Maybe sometime I'll want to take a look at it," she said kindly.

"That would be nice," he answered.

There was another long silence.

This time. Belle spoke. "It was your kiss."

"What?"

"It was your kiss that woke me. I thought you should know. I was confused and disoriented but it was your kiss . . . " She didn't finish, looking down at her plate instead. "It had happened before but I just refused to wake up. This last time, I broke it off, but you'd already brought me out of the sleeping curse."

"So our son didn't . . ."

"I don't know that that young man was our son," Belle said. "I've had some time to think about it. It was a dream world and perhaps there was a warning in it all but I do know you can't trust dreams. They can mislead you and you can think they mean one thing while they mean something else. Maybe this was a test of some kind – maybe it's to see how strong my love is. I don't know. I know I'm not ready to move back in with you but I'm not ready to walk away either. And I think, no matter what kind of a husband you are . . . will be . . . I know family means everything to you. I know you will love this child and do everything you can to protect him . . . or her."

He didn't answer right away. "Thank you."

"Well, I think the best thing for you is to get you back to your shop. It's quiet and dark in there so you should be able to ride out your hangover."

He nodded. "Probably. My restraint for this place is beginning to wear thin," he admitted looking around the diner with distaste. "I appreciate this – what you're doing." _This next bit was hard_. "Do you think we might want to talk with Archie . . . see what our next step might be?"

"I think that is something we should seriously consider," she said softly.

He paid and she walked him back to his shop. He flipped the sign to _Open_.

She followed him into the shop. He watched with some wariness and quite a bit of surprise as she turned the sign back to _Closed_.

"You know that _Closed_ sign doesn't mean a damn thing in this town," he reminded her.

She stood at the door, the sunshine streaming in to frame her silhouette. "Maybe we'll have enough time before the next interruption for me to check out that tattoo."


End file.
